


Balance

by virgilsjourney (jenna221b)



Series: Sanders Sides Ficlets [19]
Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Apologies, Clearing the air, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Roman, Logan is learning, One Shot, Support, Writing, it's a metaphor erlenmeyer trash, they both are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/virgilsjourney
Summary: I don’t want to see your stupid face with your stupid glasses and your stupid pie charts and explanations and stupid stupid stupid, how you make it all make sense-Takes place after ‘Why do we get out of bed in the morning?’





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: brief mention of a depression symptom (feeling unable to get out of bed).

He writes about daring knights on solo quests, where every action is building towards something, some greater meaning. He is soaring, breaking through every obstacle with ease. He’s going to win.

Yes, right now, perhaps he made a misstep. Perhaps he is wounded in the midst of the battle, unable to move, but move he must. And move he will.

(The beast weighs heavy on his chest. He can’t think. He can only… be).

The words won’t come.

(The beast snarls. He can’t move, trapped by its claws).

There are no words.

There is no beast. He’s in bed and there’s nothing wrong (there’s no  _logical reason_  to feel wrong). That’s the truth. The truth is ugly and so very very  _boring_.

The knocks on the door are jarring, and he jolts as if abruptly awoken from a deep sleep. But the worst thing is knowing he hadn’t been asleep at all, just drifting, trying not to get sucked down by one thought…

The knocking returns, sharp and precise. It’s clear who it is.

_I don’t want to see your stupid face with your stupid glasses and your stupid pie charts and explanations and stupid stupid stupid, how you make it all make sense-_

“Are you done?” comes a lofty voice from behind the door. Only then does Roman consider the possibility that he said all of that out loud. He groans, face turning hot and ashamed as he hides underneath his pillow.

Logan is undeterred. Roman cringes at the sound of his door being opened, and Logan’s footsteps getting closer and closer to him.

“What is all this about?”

Roman hunches his shoulders, keeping his back to Logan. He’s not dignifying that with a response. In any case, he hasn’t the faintest idea of what Logan could be talking about- not that he needs to know that.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, hesitant and barely there, but Roman stiffens all the same.

“Roman, something-” And,  _there_ , that’s what gets his attention at last: Logan’s voice, unusually edging towards a higher pitch, tone ever so slightly wobbling in uncertainty. “Something’s happened.”

Roman sighs. “You’ve got to be more specific, specs.”

Behind him, he hears the rustling of papers, and he tenses automatically. The sounds aren’t crisp and clean, denoting the smooth papers Logan writes on for his charts and findings. These are already crumpled sounds, the old, muted rustle of parchment. His stories.

“It appears you’ve been a little… confused,” Logan says. That unsure note is still in his voice, so noticeable now that Roman has turned around to face Logan before he’s even registered what he’s done. But, Logan isn’t looking at him. His eyes are focussed on the papers he’s holding tightly, his hands worrying the edges.

“When you… I don’t know if you know this but-”

Roman raises his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me everything I don’t know already.”

“Sometimes,” Logan presses on as if Roman hasn’t spoken, “when one- any of us, it’s most commonly Virgil, but I digress- when one of us gets stuck on a particular… train of thought, it… my room...”

“Spit it out,” Roman snaps.

Logan raises his head, finally, and looks him dead in the eye. He turns the papers towards Roman, just enough so Roman can see some words, trailing off in a messy black script, words he remembers thinking, but words he certainly didn’t write down.

Roman huffs, and wraps the duvet tighter around him. “So what?”

“Roman, I know the monster isn’t real.”

It’s said in one big rush of air, and if Roman didn’t know it was Logan speaking, he’d say it sounded like something close to panic. “Oh, bravo,” he says. “What part of ‘manticore-chimera’ was the giveaway?”

“Stop it,” Logan replies. “Just. Stop it. I meant to say, I know what it repre-”

“Welcome to literature 101, Logan!” Roman says, hurrying to stop the clear, unvarnished truth from spilling out of Logan’s mouth. “Our first lesson:  _metaphor._ ”

“Would you, for once in your life, just  _listen?_ ”

“Actually, no, I won’t! And do you know  _why_ not, Logan? Because whenever you say that, it’s just to go on and on and on about how  _wrong_ I-”

“Roman, I know I’ve hurt you.”

Another rush of air, like Logan’s frightened of never being able to speak again. So rushed, Roman knows he could almost pretend he never heard it. Almost.

“I-” He scoffs, trying for a nonchalant laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

Logan’s jaw works for a few moments. “I know I’ve hurt you,” he repeats slowly. “And I am… sorry. I was… I appear to have miscal-” He sighs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I was wrong.”

Silence.

Logan clears his throat and that’s the only warning Roman gets when he’s dragged unceremoniously out of bed, Logan tugging on his wrist.

“Wh-where are we going?” Roman says, trying not to trip over his own feet.

“We’re going on an adventure,” Logan replies dryly.

They come to an abrupt stop in the corridor, Logan nudging a door open with his free elbow.

“Yeah, no offence, nerd, but I wouldn’t really classify your room as an  _adventure._ ”

“Oh, hush.” But, for once, Roman knows it’s not said with any heat. Logan is distracted, half pacing around the room, eyes dancing over every surface. “One moment, please, I need to show you something.”

But, Roman hardly hears him, not when his own eyes land on Logan’s desk and see the folders stacked there. He walks over, as Logan rifles through the drawers of his bedside cabinet, muttering under his breath.

The folders are  _colour coded_ , Roman realises. One purple, one red, one light blue. And then, the painstakingly written labels:  _For V; For R; For P._ Sticky notes crowd the covers, too. Roman reads the scrawled notes with a growing sense of awe and wonder:  _R- has some overlap with V (see chap.1: sleeping pattern & chap.4: cognitive distortions)._

They’re… they’re self-help resources, Roman realises. Diligently researched, all tailored to the specific person. Which… which means...

“Aha!” Logan cries in triumph. Roman jumps, spinning around. “Think fast.”

Roman catches it before he’s even aware of what _it_ is. He blinks, hardly recognising the bound papers as his own until he thumbs through it, skim-reading. It’s Logan’s Sherlock Holmes story, his Secret Santa gift. The writing Roman remembers agonising over, even forgoing writing the planned 12 Days of Christmas parody until the very last possible moment, until he knew he had the story completed.

Roman stares and stares, marvelling at how some of the decorative stickers he placed on the cover are missing, others near falling off, how many pages are dog-eared, folded over to act as bookmarks. He can’t find it within himself to be offended. Far from it. These are all signs that the gift is  _loved_ , well and truly, that Logan actually  _re-reads_  the story. It’s the best present Roman has ever been given, he’s sure.

He knows they  might in some way forever be at odds with one another. But this,  _this_ shows everything Roman knows Logan finds difficult to express. It shows care and sentiment and, above all,  _pride_. It’s all Roman could hope for- Logan, actually appreciating his work. Enjoying fiction just as it is.

Logan’s eyes dart back and forth between the book and Roman. Perhaps he’s worried Roman is offended. He remembers himself ranting about the ‘heinous crime’ of defacing a book. But, he can only find fondness at Logan’s accidental additions to the papers, particularly the imprint of a mug of tea partially obscuring a chapter title.

Roman suddenly knows he has to say something, to reassure him.

“Do you _really_  switch off all electronics thirty minutes before bed?” It’s teasing and delightfully not serious. An offered truce.

Logan’s lips twitch. “I’m… still learning,” he shrugs.

Roman smiles wide. “Me too,” he says. Truce taken.


End file.
